


An Eternal Monday

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [8]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Oz Magi's Party in the Dress Factory, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: In his defense, it's not like every day in this fucking place is any fucking different.





	An Eternal Monday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michele659](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michele659/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2017, Wish # 15, Request 2:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan/Miguel  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: One of them is stuck in a "Groundhog Day" scenario  
> Canon/AU/Either: Either  
> Special Requests: No death, please!  
> Story/Art/Either: Story

Miguel thinks he would sort of understand if this infinitely-repeating day had some kind of important shit he was supposed to prevent from happening or something. But he's snooped everywhere, wracked his brain from all corners, and if there's something that needs to be stopped or changed, he really can't see it: to him it's still the most fucking boring day that's ever been—times a million because it keeps _repeating_.

The really, really stupid thing is the first few times it does, Miguel doesn't even _notice_. It's afterwards that he thinks _oh, that might actually have been going on for a while_.

In his defense, it's not like every day in this fucking place is any fucking different.

How he finally notices is about just as fucked up as this hellishly boring eternity: O'Reily, too thin and whiter than a sheet these days thanks to the chemo that has finally caused him to shave his longish hair before it all came off in clumps, wakes up from an exhaustion-induced nap to abruptly throw up all over himself, nearly choking on it.

Which is disgusting. And kind of embarrassing to see—Miguel actually feels for the guy.

Anyway, he gets his cleaning shit, drops O'Reily into a wheelchair to mop up and change the bedsheets, makes him gargle water and sponge-baths him, letting all the mortified snarling slide off him like a good little orderly, helps him into a new gown and back into bed—accepting a subdued, quiet "Thanks" with an easy "Hey, it's my job."

But it happens again. And again. And _again_.

At some point Miguel tells him "Hermano, you _really_ need to start sleeping on your side, if you're gonna wake up puking every day."

"What're you on about," O'Reily croaks tiredly, tugging his fresh blanket up to his chin and shivering anyway, "that's never happen'd before."

"It happened yesterday," Miguel answers, thinking it's confusion and exhaustion talking.

"No it didn't," O'Reily almost slurs. "I'd remember _that_ ," he adds more distinctly, expression darkly annoyed.

They have this conversation _five_ more times before Miguel finally clues in that O'Reily's chemo is not fucking with the guy's brain and if he says it hasn't happened before, then, for him, it _hasn't_. And that this day isn't just absurdly similar to what to Miguel— _and apparently no one else_ —is the previous one, but _perfectly identical_. Right down to the way Chico spears his chicken nuggets with his fork at lunch.

The first time he mentions being stuck in a time loop to someone, it's actually to O'Reily too, because he figures if the guy's brain works more or less to its usual standard, Miguel might as well pick it for ideas.

"What kinda meds h've you been sampling, Alvarez?" O'Reily half-mumbles, half-drawls, tugging his bribe of a second blanket even higher up.

After that, Miguel starts rolling him on his side before he wakes up, with varying levels of success regarding the subsequent mess. At some point, O'Reily humors him and tells him to pay attention to everything and everyone, "and snoop everywhere you can. Y'know, subtly. 'Course I s'ppose if you get thrown in the hole, you'll be right back out when the day loops back, uh?"

"Probably," Miguel agrees, ignoring the _you're insane but at least it's entertaining_ grin on O'Reily's face.

The problem is it doesn't help. Neither does poking anyone else's brain—the Padre and the Sister are the only other ones to take him somewhat seriously, but all _they've_ got to give are respectively: a long lecture on God's mysterious ways and righting one's wrong, and an equally long discourse on God's mysterious ways and the unexplored wonders of the human subconscious in regard to perceived as well as buried guilt. Which, frankly, just makes Miguel's head hurt.

He already knows trying to bargain with God won't work. He can't fix something he can't find, and he doesn't dare do something particularly rash in case the day _doesn't_ loop back and he really ends up on Death Row.

So, he's stuck. Or possibly in Hell.

O'Reily shifts restlessly in his sleep, like he always does right before he wakes up to puke. Miguel rolls him on his side and holds him there—he's got a bucket ready today, maybe he won't have to mop the floor for once...

Apparently, this is a lucky loop: not even _one_ drop on the floor. Miguel should not be so happy about this.

"Thanks," O'Reily rasps, as Miguel puts the bucket down away from him. "Tha's good reflexes, Alv'rez."

"I've had practice," Miguel drawls, wheeling the chair closer, cleaning and bed-changing supplies on top. "You want a sponge bath?"

"No," O'Reily growls.

"Too bad," Miguel answers, finding a weird sort of reassurance in the usual grumpiness, "you're covered in sweat, you're getting one if you want new sheets and a second blanket."

He doesn't mention this time either that it's about the millionth one anyway, and that, by now, he probably knows where every single one of O'Reily's freckles is.


End file.
